Lately, my pen is heavy.
I’ve been writing much much more than normal. Nonstop, in fact. Pages and pages and pages flow out of me, as I am a pitcher pouring words, not water. Nouns and consonants just fucking each other like newlywed Mormons, reproducing words at a rate to make the Catholics shake their heads.
My gift of gab, coming together like never before, with no end in sight. Fuck, I even sat down today and knocked out over 2K words in about five minutes. Pretty impressive I must say, especially because I type with the motor skills of a retired boxer.
Problem is — I publish nothing.
Well, almost nothing. What I do publish is sad, melancholy, and drab, and that is the upbeat stuff, which should tell you something.
The other stuff? It is like a Sylvia Plath poem hatefucked a Tom Waits song. I feel the Time Traveler’s Wife on Benadryl every single time I get to the bottom of one these things and realize my Happy Happy Joy Joy song sounds rather Ho Hum. In other words, it’s a total fuckin’ bummer.
But right now I caught a groove, where my Happy Happy Joy Joy song sounds less Ho Hum.
I’m in a mood — so I opt, for the real.
I am going to channel my inner freelydone, one of my absolute favorite writers ever, and just fucking say what’s on my mind. And who is not on board with my prose, can run their tongue along my balls. I haven’t shaved them in a week or two, so I’d bring a toothpick.
Resisting the notion, that “I am a grown ass man who knows I should not be showing my inner monologue in a time of weakness”, I will do what I best when I think of you, my love…
And I will write you a love song.
I graduated college at 22.
Two days before graduation, I landed a job as an analyst in the top company in my field, negating any need for a Master’s Degree as my resume now was a gold standard. For the next fifteen years, I would receive no less a 12% annual increase, head and shoulders above my peers, every fucking step of the way. I was never the smartest person in the room — but I worked the hardest, and it wasn’t even close.
Management, just a year and a half in. Director by early 30s. Junior VP of a 200 million dollar company by 36.
The best father I knew — and that wasn’t close either.
By all accounts from the outside looking in, my life was a good one. Elder men in my family told me I was their hero and the one my age resented me, which was uncomfortable, but I understood both failed where I succeeded, and that was really their way to say, “I’m fucking proud of you”.
But something was missing in life, and I knew it. I’d known it for years and years. I always knew it.
You — were missing.
And when I found you, I knew it too.
I knew immediately that no matter the cost there was, I would withstand any test and any hurdle to make sure I would have you. I’d wait. I’d press through the obstacles. I’d wait some more, and I’d keep on pressing through so that the second half of my life was one where you would be my accomplice. I have strong shoulders honey; I can handle a lot. I can listen to a thousand Tom Waits songs if it means I can sing “Will I See You Tonight” with you.
So ease up and smile, Kitten.
I know you are in this hell with me right now, and I know you are cracking and crumbling, developing worries and fears, as our plan for distance is crushing you.
But smile, baby.
Like I have told you a thousand times before, I am going nowhere. Look down at your wrist and you see that collar you wear? I wear it with you.
So be happy, because I need you to, baby. And think of this little story below for me, because though some of the detail may change, the important things will not.
You land at PDX as summer approaches; my annual conference is among us, which I quickly ditch again like I did last year, but this time solely because of your availability. So I book a plane from SAN up north.
It’s been a while since you smelled the Versace Blue on my chest, the black wifebeater tank tops, the black boxer briefs, and the look in my green eyes as your body inches closer to mine in each stride.
The hotel I booked will have to do; a downtown Airbnb is a crapshoot and I really don’t feel like dicking around with time management. I’ve waited for months and it’s Tom Ford Orchid Soliel season; I could eat your pussy goddamn in the lobby.
I’ve missed you, more than you fucking know.
A year now and June is among us again, which brings nostalgia and a sense of accomplishment for cutting through it all just hang onto what we both know to be the most profound and unconditional love either one of us will find in our lifetimes.
The elevator ride is not one for the faint of heart, as kissing you looks more like a contact sport and my fingers find the slickness of your kitty and your hand, still wearing that same collar, reaches for the thick and hardness of your salvation.
So, baby girl, as you read this little fiction, I want you to know — deep down — that it will happen again.
And when you do, I want you to clutch your heart and touch that kitty of mine.
I want you to remember what my fucking eyes look like when you peak down between your shaky legs as your orgasm starts to peak. Do remember? I know you do, but I want you to really visualize it.
This is not a suggestion. This an instruction — from your Dom.
Imagine me and my face between your olive thighs as I rip a constant flood of orgasms out of you with angry loving eyes.
As I my salt and pepper beard grazes your soft skin.
As I stand up, look at you, grab you by the neck, pull your hair, squeeze your tits, and shove the cock you have come to ache for deep inside the pussy I claimed a long time ago.
Imagine it, for it will be so, again.
Not a suggestion.
And when you do, visualize it, I want you to touch your kitty. I want you to edge. I want you to whisper to yourself, “Daddy, Can I Cum, Please?”
And I want you to hear my answer.
I love you, Kitten. Ain’t a goddamn thing in the world gonna change that.
Just smile for me.